


Facing The Nightmare

by LacklusterPuddles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Flashbacks, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Nightmares, Poor John, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 14:40:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2655713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LacklusterPuddles/pseuds/LacklusterPuddles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is battling, not just his memories of the war, but a recurring nightmare in which he witnesses Sherlock commit suicide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Facing The Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I was having a very difficult, very emotional day, and this just kind of happened. 
> 
> Mistakes are my own.  
> Comments are welcome.  
> I'm so sorry.

_John shot up in bed with a scream, his body rigid and his breathing heavy, sweat dripping off of his nose. The world around him was spinning, he could smell sand and taste blood on his tongue. He clutched his shoulder and scrambled against the blankets, terror enveloping him. He had been shot, they were coming, he was going to die._

_“John! John!”_

_He suddenly became sharply aware of the hands cupping his face and instinctively shoved them away, but they quickly returned gripping him tightly._

_“John, listen to me, focus on my voice, you're not there anymore, you're safe!”_

_He stilled a moment, as the deep voice registered, it was familiar, it belonged to someone he knew, to someone he loved. “Sherlock?” He said, in a breathy whisper._

_“Yes, John, I'm here.”_

_John reached forward into the darkness, until his hands came against bare skin, “But...” The world began to spin again. A few seconds later a light came on like a glaring sun, the tears in his eyes blurring the room, as he looked around horrified. This was unfamiliar, this was not right. A gentle hand swept back his sweat matted hair. “John, look at me.” He jerked his head towards the voice, trying to blink away the tears, and froze when he met Sherlock's gaze, an intense look of concern shading the cool blue._

_John stared for a long time, as his world slowly snapped back into place. He was not in a war zone, he was at home, the blood was from biting his lip, his bullet wound had long since healed, he was in his bedroom, with Sherlock, his Sherlock, who was not dead... Sherlock... was. not. dead. John threw off the covers and leapt forwards, crashing into Sherlock, nearly knocking the taller man off of his feet. John wound his arms around him and buried his face in his neck. “You're alive! God, Sherlock, you're alive!”_

* * *

_Sherlock hated these nights, hated the fear he saw in John's face, hated the way these nightmares tortured him. John insisted they were much better than they used to be and that he would be fine, but Sherlock still worried, especially during the last year. John's nightmares had always been about the war, about being shot, but a year ago, out of nowhere, he had begun having vivid dreams of Sherlock dying, more specifically, of him committing suicide. The first time John had this particular dream, he woke up screaming and sobbing, and it took a full hour to calm him down. For three days Sherlock did not bring it up, he just kept a little closer to John than usual and stayed up each night to ensure that he was sleeping peacefully._

_Finally, on the fourth day, Sherlock broached the subject and John refused to respond, his face losing all color at just the mention of the dream. After two weeks of nagging (which consisted of Sherlock staring constantly and sighing occasionally), John finally gave in and told him. In excruciating detail, he described seeing Sherlock on a roof top, then watching helplessly as he stepped off the edge, watching him fall, seeing his body twisted against the pavement, then collapsing beside him and getting covered in his blood. “I... I didn't know... why. I didn't... understand." John said, choking on the words, "I thought... I thought... it had to be my fault, that I must have... done something.” He struggled to settle his breathing, as he fought back tears, “I just begged, I begged you not to be dead.” They sat together for several hours after that, neither of them speaking, just staying in that one spot on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, fingers intertwined._

_With this new information, Sherlock's mind was constantly spinning, cursing whatever it was that brought this bloody thing into John's dreams, and trying to come up with some way to help. From then on, John not only faced nightmares of the war, but also of Sherlock's death, sometimes both at once.  Knowing that John was being forced to repeatedly relive the most terrifying moments imaginable, the deaths of so many friends, as well as, the gruesome suicide of the love of his life, Sherlock began somewhat obsessively studying everything about the psychology and physiology of dreams, flashbacks, and the like, yet still he was unable to find a way to relieve John of his nightmares.  
_

_Reflecting back on those early days Sherlock sighed and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close, as John leaned all of his weight against him and began to shiver, crying quietly into his chest. When he finally stilled, Sherlock walked him to the bed, but John's grip tightened when he tried to lower him to the edge. “Please, don't leave.” John said, his eyes growing wide when Sherlock forced him to sit. “I'm not leaving, you just need to rest.” Sherlock said, calmly, as he smoothed his hand over John's shoulder.  
_

_Reaching out, John grabbed Sherlock's wrist and pulled him down next to him, his face reddening as he stroked his thumb over the cotton of his pajama pants. “I... I'm sorry. I just... it felt... so real... I thought...” Sherlock scooted closer as John trailed off, tears wetting his eyelashes again. Leaning in, he rested his forehead against John's temple and smiled softly, “Never be sorry. I'll not be dead as many times as you need.”_

* * *

  _Sunlight streamed through the window, as John lay curled up in the crook of Sherlock's left arm, listening quietly to the steady rhythm of his breathing. He walked his fingers along Sherlock's ribs, then reached up and raked them through his thick dark curls, watching as they smoothed out before springing back into place. He nuzzled his nose to Sherlock's chest and brushed a kiss against the pale flesh. He knew that Sherlock had stayed up, watching over him, ensuring that the rest of the night was peaceful. Once he even woke up to find him checking his pulse, a mixture of worry and frustration clouding his face. Regardless of anything that he might say to the contrary, John knew that Sherlock did not like puzzles that he could not solve or things that were hurting the people he loved. Just then Sherlock shifted in his sleep, rolling onto his side, wrapping his right arm around John's waist, and sighing into his hair. John smiled broadly, then tilted his head up to kiss Sherlock's neck, before nestling against him. He didn't care about the dreams or anything else, he was prepared to face whatever nightmares life threw at him, just as long as he could face them here, in the arms of the man he loves._

 ...

The alarm clock went off and John stirred, stretching slightly to reach across the bed, seeking Sherlock's warmth. “Sherlock?” He called sleepily, lifting his head and opening his eyes when he noticed the sound of rain pattering against the window. John looked around the dark, empty room, as the weight of reality slowly hollowed him out for the thousandth time. He rested his head back down, then pulled his pillow against his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around it. Tears slipped down his face, as he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to go back to sleep, to go back to where Sherlock was still alive, back to where he hadn't lost him. He just wasn't ready to face this nightmare, not without Sherlock, not yet.


End file.
